by Steve Frech
No. Nothing would come of it because I had covered my tracks, a fact I was not proud of.
“I have to get back. I’ve got a meeting,” she says. “Any more questions?”
“Two.”
“Fire away.”
“This roommate, did she and Laura have any sort of physical resemblance?”
Amy sits up. Her face hardens. “Why?”
“I need to know.”
“Tell me why you asked that.”
“She looked a little bit like Laura, didn’t she?”
Her silence is an affirmative answer.
“Fine. Yes. It was a weird coincidence, but they had a passing resemblance, except for the hair and eyes. I think that’s why she was spouting that weird shit about them being one person.”
A passing resemblance is all that had been needed to trick my mind into thinking I had seen Laura, but it was this woman. That’s who I saw at the Halloween celebration. That’s why she looked like she was the correct age. That’s who Mrs Sherman had seen outside the cottage. That’s who has Murphy.
“Last question—what was her roommate’s name?”
“Rachel. Rachel Smith.”
My face drops. “No … No … Please tell me her last name isn’t Smith.”
“Yeah. It’s Smith.”
I look around the park. “Shit.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
*
Because there are thousands of Smiths in the tri-state area.
I’m sitting in the rental car, staring at the search results on my phone.
Even working on the assumption that Rachel Smith and her family lived within relative driving distance of Sacred Heart, I’m still in the hundreds, and no specific hit for a Rachel Smith.
I drop the phone onto the passenger seat in disgust. Up until this point, I’ve been lucky. I got the license plate from a photo, and Rachel had made the mistake of wearing that old hat with the logo when she recruited Veronica. I had caught a string of breaks, but now those breaks were at an end.
I’m not going to be able to find Rachel Smith with standard internet sleuthing. There’s only one place where I know they’ll have her name and address, and there’s no way that they’re going to give them to me.
I have to somehow break into a mental institution.
Chapter 14
I think I’ve got it.
I’ve been working on my story the entire drive here. I was feeling confident, but now, sitting in the parking lot and looking up at the massive Victorian brick structure, my confidence is starting to crack.
The building is part of a complex that sits on top of a hill, overlooking Plymouth Valley.
I’ve heard so much about this place from my childhood. It had been an insane asylum for over a hundred years. There are horror stories about its past, when treatments for mental disorders were in their barbaric infancy. One of the buildings had housed a tuberculosis ward. You can find disturbing, black-and-white photos online of rows of beds in expansive rooms, and nurses leading lobotomized patients down hallways. It’s the stuff of nightmares, and even though I said you can find them online, I don’t recommend that you do.
All the stories were made even more mythic by the fact that it sits alone on a hill. I can only assume it was situated here so people wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of the suffering that took place inside. It had closed in the 1980s due to budget cuts and was abandoned for a time. That’s when the squatters moved in. One of the rumors was that when the facility closed down, they simply let the patients out, and some stayed in the tunnels below ground that connected the buildings. I don’t know if I believe that. It reopened around 2000. In my research, I found out that only the main building was in use, but there were negotiations to open the other buildings, and use them as research facilities.
As I approach the front doors, my confidence cracks even further. The website said that visiting hours were from ten a.m. to five p.m. It’s four o’clock. I could have waited until tomorrow and worked on my story some more, but I wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. With that added fatigue, I’d have a harder time keeping my story straight, no matter how hard I worked on it. Also, I’d do nothing tonight except think about Murphy.
The doors slide open without making a sound. I step into the lobby and am greeted by that hospital smell—a mix of antiseptic, plastic, and that unknown ingredient that makes it all so unpleasant.
Standing in the modern-looking lobby, you’d have no idea that the building was over a hundred years old.
There’s an unattended reception desk in front of me. Behind the desk is a windowed room, where I can see a woman reading from a file and talking on a phone. To the left and right are heavy, keycard entry doors with small rectangular windows, through which I can see long hallways.
I step over to the desk.
The woman in the office looks up. She smiles at me and mouths, “One moment.”
I nod politely and she goes back to her conversation.
I scan the desk and my eyes rest on a sign-in sheet sitting on the ledge.
Shit.
To get through the doors, I’ll have to sign in. If I sign in, she’s going to check my ID. I won’t be able to use a fake name. There’s nothing I can do about it. One step at a time, and the first step is to get through that door.
The woman hangs up the phone, and steps through the office door into the reception area, behind the desk.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Her expression shifts a bit as she notices the small cuts and bruises on my face from the accident.
I do my best to look apologetic, and a little embarrassed.
“Hi. My name is Jacob Reese. I was wondering if I could, ummm— I have an uncle who has dementia and, uh, well, he needs to be put in a facility. My cousin and I are looking at different places, and I was wondering if I could take a quick look around and possibly speak to someone.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Reese. I’m Dr Cavanaugh. I’m the Chief Administrator of Sacred Heart.”
“Hi,” I say, shaking her hand.
What is the Chief Administrator doing manning the front desk at a place like this?
She’s eyeing the cuts and bruises again.
Perfect.
“Yeah. My uncle had an ‘incident’ when he didn’t recognize me yesterday. That was kind of the last straw,” I say with a sad smile.
She buys it without hesitation. “I see. Who is your uncle’s primary physician?”
“Dr Williamson over in Burlington.”
Her brow creases. “Dr Williamson?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m pretty familiar with all the physicians on the board in Burlington, and I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”
Double shit.
“He’s fairly new. He moved from Newport not too long ago.”
“I see.”
“We haven’t been too happy with him, and my uncle has started to deteriorate rapidly. My cousin has been the one dealing with it and he can’t do it alone, anymore.”
“What type of dementia is it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What classification of dementia does your uncle have? Is it Alzheimer’s? Vascular? DLB?”
I helplessly shrug and shake my head. “I’m not entirely sure. My cousin would know. I came in from out of town to help sort things out.”
“Do you know what medications he’s taking?”
“I don’t. This whole thing has been happening really fast. I can find out, but right now, we’re just checking out different facilities.”
That seems to placate her. I do look like someone who’s had a pretty rough couple of days.
“I was hoping for a quick tour,” I say.
To my horror, she shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. Before we could do that, we would have to speak with his current physician to determine if Sacred Heart
is the best fit for him. It’s state law. We have to make sure we have the resources to take care of him, and that he’s not a danger to our staff or other patients.”
The disappointment in my face is genuine.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know these things are incredibly difficult and painful, but the law—”
“I get it. I really do,” I say in a pleading tone. “It’s just … I mean, you’re right. It is really tough. It’s tough on my cousin and his family. I know it’s the rules, but … I’m … I’m trying to help him out. I have to go back home, tomorrow. Please, I just want to see the place so that I can tell him it’s an option. If we do select Sacred Heart, you can do the interview with Dr Williamson, and if you decide it’s not the right fit for my uncle, then that will be that. I’m just trying to cut out a step.”
She’s wavering. “It’s … It’s a patient privacy concern. That’s why—”
“And I understand. I do. Even a quick, five-minute tour would be incredibly helpful …”
All I need is to get through the door. I don’t know what I’ll do then, but it’s a bridge I’ll cross when and if I get there, and I have to get there.
She’s still thinking it over.
I go for the ultimate sympathy tactic—bluffing.
I shake my head in resignation. “I’m trying to help out my cousin. I mean, you know how tough it is—not knowing if the next minute is going to be a good one or a bad one, the depression when you realize that your parent doesn’t know who you are. But if you can’t do it, it’s okay. I completely understand.”
She looks me over one last time from top to bottom, sighs, and gives me a conspiratorial smile.
“Do you promise this will be our little secret?”
“Of course,” I answer with a slight delay as I can’t believe it worked.
“I’m not going to have you sign in, for obvious reasons, but I do need to see your ID.”
“Absolutely,” I say, taking out my wallet, and handing her my driver’s license.
She studies it.
Christ, I’m glad I didn’t give her a fake name.
“Five minutes,” she says, handing it back to me.
“Oh my God. Thank you so much.”
“Remember,” she says with a wink. “Our secret.”
I tap my nose, playing along. Her laugh lets me know it’s the right move.
“Follow me, please,” she says, and leads me to the door.
She takes out her keycard and waves it over a sensor mounted on the wall. The door buzzes, and she pulls it open.
“After you.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping through the door.
The hospital smell intensifies. The hallway stretches for what appears to be miles. Doors line both sides. There are a handful of patients in the hall. Most are accompanied by orderlies. The patients are easily distinguishable by their red robes and slippers. Occasionally, there is the sound of a raised voice from somewhere down the hall.
“This is our main wing. All our patients are on this floor. We’re in talks to hopefully expand and utilize other buildings.”
“I read something about that.”
“Really? How familiar are you with Sacred Heart?” she asks as we begin walking.
“I grew up about an hour away from here, so I knew of it. Not much more than the campfire story stuff, though. It was the place you dared your friends to go.”
“Yeah. We’re working hard to turn that image around. We’re getting some of the best doctors and staff in the tri-state area.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak badly of the place. It’s only what I knew of it before yesterday.”
“I totally understand. It’s not the best reputation, so thank you for not giving up on us for that. In a few more years, this will be one of the top facilities in the northeast. We just need a little more time.”
I glance into some of the rooms as we pass and notice that a lot are empty.
“It’s still an incredible building,” I say.
“The history is fascinating. There’s a records room downstairs and the files go back decades.”
Bingo.
“Speaking of which,” she continues, “if you want to leave me your uncle’s primary physician’s number after we’re done, I can contact him, and we can start that process.”
“Sure. I’ll get it from my brother.”
She turns to me, momentarily puzzled. “I thought it was your cousin.”
Triple shit.
Since the moment she mentioned it, my mind has been obsessed with forming a plan to get into the records room, and I haven’t been paying as much attention as needed to keep my story straight.
“It is,” I say. “Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep.”
She gives me an understanding smile and continues walking.
I inwardly curse.
“We have a pharmacy on site. We also use the latest in speech and cognitive therapy. I know you said you didn’t know your uncle’s medications, but do you know if his physician was employing any sort of therapy.”
“Uh, no, sorry.”
This time, she doesn’t give me a consoling smile—only a sideways glance.
I’ve got to get away from her and find the records room in the basement.
We pass a short connecting hall. Halfway down is a woman sitting in a wheelchair across from a janitor’s closet. There’s a stairwell at the other end. That’s it. That’s where I need to get.
“—records from your uncle’s physician.”
My head is still turned towards the hallway as we pass, and I don’t even realize she’s speaking to me.
“Mr Reese?”
“Hmm?” I turn to look at her.
“The records? From your uncle’s physician.”
I don’t know what the question was, but I just assume she’s asking for my fictitious uncle’s medical records.
“Sure. I’ll call Dr Williams for you and get them to you as soon as I can.”
Her brow creases for a split second like she’s frustrated.
She motions to an open door.
“Let me show you one of the rooms.”
I follow her.
The room is small—maybe twenty feet by twenty. There’s an empty bed against the wall with monitors and some equipment resting on mobile metal trays. The frosted window lets in muted sunlight and is reinforced to keep it from breaking.
“These are our individual rooms, like the kind your uncle would be staying in, depending on his condition.”
I’m not even paying attention. I don’t know how much of the tour is left. My mind is racing for any excuse to leave her side. Should I tell her that I was so intrigued by the records room that I would love to check it out? No, that’s stupid. She’s not going to—
“—has Alzheimer’s?”
Again, I’m snapped out of it, completely unaware of the question.
“What?”
“You said your uncle has Alzheimer’s?”
“Uh, yeah.”
This time, there’s no compassionate smile. She looks like she’s concerned. I’m still trying to figure out how to get away from her.
I nervously glance about the room.
“What’s your uncle’s name?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your uncle. What’s his name?”
“Uh, Doug.” I feel like I’ve answered fast enough, but something is wrong.
“And your brother’s name?”
“Anthony.”
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I thought it was your cousin.”
“It is. I have a brother. His name is Anthony.”
“And your cousin’s name?”
“Mark.”
“What’s your uncle’s name, again?”
I have absolutely forgotten the answer I gave a moment ago. “Dav—I mean, Doug.”
FUCK!
It feels like the temperature of the room has dropped ten degrees, due
to her stare.
“Mr Reese, why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not lying—”
“A moment ago, you called his physician Dr Williams, but back at reception, it was Dr Williamson. You also said you didn’t know what classification of dementia your uncle had, but now you say he has Alzheimer’s. You don’t know his medications, or if he’s doing any therapy. And, you can’t seem to keep your brother or your cousin straight … Why are you lying?”
I meet her stare but can’t speak.
That’s it. She’s had enough. Up until now, I’ve been worried about getting information about Rachel Smith, but I never realized that if I failed, not only would I not get the information, I could also be in serious trouble.
Her stare hardens.
“Well, the tour is over. I need you to come with me back to reception,” she says, walking towards the door, while keeping an eye on me.
I don’t move. If I go out those doors, Rachel has the upper hand.
“Let’s go … Now.”
I have no idea what I’m doing, but remain rooted to the floor.
She nods. “Okay. If that’s the way you want to do this.”
She steps into the hallway and calls out, “Rory? Michael? Can you come here, please?”
She turns back to me and stands there with her arms folded, blocking the door.
Moments later, two mountainous orderlies appear behind her.
“Mr Reese, these are two of my best orderlies: Rory and Michael. Gentlemen, this is Mr Reese, and he’s in the building illegally.”
They join her in glaring at me.
“Mr Reese,” Dr Cavanaugh continues, “you are in a world of trouble. You are going to tell me why you lied to get in here or Michael and Rory are going to quietly escort you from the building.”
The “quietly” was a command. She doesn’t want a scene. She doesn’t want me to draw attention and I instantly know why. I’ve found my leverage.
“I promise you; I won’t be quiet. I’ll make sure everyone in this building knows I was here.”
There it is.
That blink that tells me her command backfired.
